


Customs

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Drama, Gen, I failed, I tried to write this as realistically as possible, M/M, Public Humiliation, Spanking, SubObi Week, SubObi Week #2, plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:59:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Obi-Wan offends a highly respected wise man while on a mission. He agrees to be punished by Qui-Gon for the perceived insubordination, but is surprised by his own response to the punishment.





	Customs

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tohje and antheiasilva for looking over portions of this story.
> 
> Posted in response to the SubObi Week prompt: spanking.

The old man sat in the corner, blinking his milky eyes slowly, hands clasped around a gnarled walking stick. Squabbling erupted around him, as negotiations weaved and dipped and crashed, from daybreak to long into the evening. Still, the man remained in vigil, a spectator with a thin cloud of grey-white hair around his ears, one more wispy patch stubbornly clinging to the dry, spotted skin at the top of his head. He was thin, the kind of thin a person became when age whittled away appetite, or interest. 

The man seemed to have another interest altogether. Every time Obi-Wan glanced across the long conference room and throng of politicians, that pale, unreadable gaze was already fastened to the Padawan. Watching. Occasionally the man would shake his head, or quirk his lips to the side. 

Obi-Wan was not unnerved, exactly. An elderly man with a cane posed little physical threat, though Master Yoda would surely whack his shin for the assumption. And yet he felt a familiar tickle of foreboding at the back of his neck. He shifted in his chair.

“Something wrong?” Qui-Gon murmured, glancing in Obi-Wan’s direction. The talks were intense, and as mediator, Qui-Gon was deeply absorbed. Weary, too, Obi-Wan sensed. His Master was hunched forward, elbows and hands on the table. The Force surrounding him was tense. Even Jedi were not immune to the impact of constant, petty sniping. Twice in as many days he and Qui-Gon had quarreled in this very room. 

“No,” Obi-Wan answered, straightening his own posture. His gaze strayed to the old man. “But that fellow in the corner finds me...fascinating, I suppose.”

Qui-Gon looked at him, a half-smile twitching the corner of his mouth. “You are endlessly fascinating, my apprentice. Your haircut alone—“

“Ha.”

“I don’t think he’s spoken at all during the negotiations thus far,” Qui-Gon told him quietly, surreptitiously stealing a peek, “though I seem to recall him sitting there every meeting.”

The tickle sharpened along Obi-Wan’s skin, but then another fight broke out, and he was distracted.

————

The next morning, the old man was there, hunkered in his usual seat, the knuckles of his fingers like giant knots growing out of the wooden cane. Three of the oligarchs stood beside him, their hands folded. 

The Jedi came to a stop. Qui-Gon lifted his hands to his hips. “Sirs?”

B’Ha stepped forward. “Master Jedi, Capte is the elder of both tribes. He is the sage of our collective people, despite the current fracas, and we cannot reach a decision without his full support.”

Obi-Wan raised a brow. 

Qui-Gon schooled his features. “I understand.”

“Capte has listened to these talks from the first word. He is pleased with the results, save one exception.” B’Ha seemed to hesitate, eyes drifting from Qui-Gon to Obi-Wan. He heaved a sigh. “He is troubled by the insolence displayed by your student since your arrival. His willfulness flies in the face of our culture, and is flagrantly disrespectful to you, Master Jedi. As your subordinate, Padawan Kenobi is expected to defer to your wisdom in all circumstances. Capte will not accept the resolution of these talks until he can be confident in your authority, Master Jinn.”

Obi-Wan thought he had never remained so perfectly still in all his life, arms folded within his sleeves. Although he disagreed with Capte’s observations, defending himself would only worsen the situation, and he said nothing. 

“I see,” Qui-Gon crossed his arms, tone careful. He looked directly at the old man, and bowed. “I can assure you, sage Capte, my apprentice is always respectful and loyal to me. As Jedi, we are taught to not only follow our teachers, but to develop independent minds. Obi-Wan is a senior Padawan Learner, and is encouraged to share both his insights and misgivings with me.”

Capte huffed, leaning to whisper into one of the oligarch’s ears. Then he sank back and slammed the cane against the floor, grumbling. 

“My apologies, Master Jinn, but if you are to participate in the creation of our laws, you should also demonstrate respect for the values of our culture. When an apprentice or insubordinate is openly insolent, they are disciplined.”

Obi-Wan caught the subtle flare of annoyance in the Force. Qui-Gon inhaled slowly. “The Jedi Order extends its deepest respect to Kamori and its culture.”

“Ah,” B’Ha said, sounding relieved. “It will be fine, then. You can complete the demonstration and move on. Sage Capte has permitted us to act as witnesses.”

Obi-Wan looked to Qui-Gon, vague fear uncoiling in his belly. 

Qui-Gon touched his Padawan’s elbow in fleeting reassurance, then regarded B’Ha and the fellow oligarchs. “Witnesses to what, exactly?”

At the question, Capte rapped his walking stick on the floor, the blunt sound echoing through the conference room. 

“Your apprentice must show his humility and regret by submitting to a physical beating.”

Qui-Gon snorted. “I’m sorry, but that will not be possible. The Jedi Order does not employ corporal punishment as a form of discipline.”

Obi-Wan tried not to focus on their words, but controlling the cadence of his breathing. 

B’Ha smoothed the corner of his brow. He glanced at the visibly irritated elder. “Beating is perhaps an incorrect term. No one wishes to see Padawan Kenobi bloodied and bruised.”

“Oh, well _that_ is a relief,” Qui-Gon drawled. “Neither do I, considering he has been nothing but a help to me, and you all, I might add, during these negotiations. He is also an ambassador of the Republic, and it would not reflect well on either tribe to participate in such barbarous and unnecessary punishment. Plainly, I won’t allow it.”

Obi-Wan should have felt eased by his Master’s pronouncement. But his eyes strayed to Capte’s fingers, yellow-stained from the local tobacco, as they drummed along the curve of the cane. He understood that the walking stick must be the intended tool for this _demonstration_ and wondered if the scratches and craters in the wood were made by demonstrations to other insolent insubordinates. He was not afraid of the threat of pain—he had been tortured in far worse and creative ways by far worse and creative people—but slightly scandalized that this old man had watched Obi-Wan for days, and determined that he required this sort of public penance. 

“Master Jinn, I know our ways must seem cruel to you. But if you are confident in your own customs, what threat does it pose to you to acquiesce to Capte’s request? He is the wisest man on Kamori, and if he sees this flaw in your student, could it be possible he is correct?”

Qui-Gon’s nostrils flared. “Even if that were so, identifying and correcting such flaws are my responsibility.”

“Indeed, they are your responsibility.” The mask of polite entreaty slipped just enough for Obi-Wan to glimpse the frustration on B’Ha’s face “You are well aware of how trying these talks have been. The end is finally in sight. But Sage Capte must trust your abilities implicitly if he is to agree to the terms of this compromise. He believes if he can bend, so can you. Is a few moments of discomfort on your apprentice’s part so much worse than dragging out these negotiations for our people?” 

Qui-Gon began to form a rebuttal, but Obi-Wan touched his shoulder and leaned in. “Master, perhaps they are right.”

“This is not what we do, Padawan.” The whisper was calm, but with a razored undercurrent, the Master’s eyes still focused on Capte. 

“What we do is seek peace.” Obi-Wan reminded him. “This is an unusual method, but if it ends these talks with a positive result, would it not be worth it?”

Qui-Gon sighed heavily, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Obi-Wan—“

“Can you honestly say you have never wanted to teach me a lesson in humility, Master?” Obi-Wan said, venturing a small smile. 

“Only you would argue with me about being punished for arguing with me.” Qui-Gon shook his head. “I will not be pressured into beating my own apprentice.”

Obi-Wan smoothed his robes. He could feel the weight of the men’s eyes on them, but ignored it. “Master, I know you will not enjoy this. I also know you could not truly hurt me. You have never raised a hand against me.”

Qui-Gon looked at him, and his blue eyes were shadowed. “I do not intend to start now, Obi-Wan,” he said softly. “We will find another way—“

“And stall the resolution, for my own comfort?” Obi-Wan countered. “Or yours?” 

The strong jaw set. Qui-Gon Jinn was, among many things, a peaceful man. Obi-Wan knew the thought of causing his Padawan physical pain was horrifying for him. Not that Obi-Wan himself was exactly relishing the idea. Yet as the more prudent member of their team, he understood that sometimes sacrifices needed to be made. Stalling the talks any further was out of the question. And it wasn’t as if the oligarchs wanted him roughed up and bloodied.

Hopefully.

Obi-Wan, resolve steeled, made a shallow bow to Qui-Gon, a symbol of respect. His braid swung with the movement, and Qui-Gon caught it between deft fingers. When Obi-Wan looked up, his Master’s eyes were sorrowful. 

“It is my obligation, my honor, to protect you, young Padawan.” Qui-Gon murmured, too quiet for any ears save Obi-Wan’s, “Perhaps they can request a new team be sent.”

Obi-Wan grasped Qui-Gon’s elbow. “It would take days for a new team to arrive, Master. Even longer for them to be brought up to speed.” Qui-Gon still held the braid, and Obi-Wan felt a warm, bright ache in his chest. So rarely did a Master publicly demonstrate the affection he held for his apprentice. “Whatever happens today, I’m certain I can heal from it far quicker.”

“You are a strong man, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon conceded, allowing the braid to fall from his hand. “I doubt I am so strong, nor will I be able to heal as quickly.”

Obi-Wan bowed again, realizing with a mixture of relief and trepidation that he had won the unexpected debate. 

Qui-Gon glanced up at the waiting faces of the men. He cleared his throat, fingers hooking into his belt, a habit Obi-Wan had come to associate with his Master channeling nervous energy—or anger. “Violence is not the method the Jedi Master employs in censure of their student.”

B’Ha started forward, a prominent lump in his neck bobbing up and down. “I-I don’t—“

Qui-Gon held up a hand, calmly, commanding the attention of the entire room, and bringing the oligarch to a stop. “However, a Jedi in service of a culture must not dismiss the beliefs of a culture when they do not align with our own. In order to reach a resolution to the talks, and to continue to foster a positive relationship with the Kamorian people...I will do as Sage Capte asks.”

Obi-Wan’s shoulders eased even as a knot tightened in his stomach. He was half-convinced his Master, ever contradictory, would decide on mutiny rather than strike him. He spared a moment to laugh inwardly: the one time Qui-Gon Jinn decided to obey a command. 

The oligarchs spoke quietly among one another, the old man in the center nodding slowly, fingers sliding down the gnarled cane. Qui-Gon’s arm came around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and he leaned in. “I will do what I can to soften the blows, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan looked up, and was startled by the depth of pain and trepidation he saw in the man’s face. “Yes, Master. Thank you.” 

Things moved quickly from there. Chairs were rearranged. Obi-Wan stood next to Qui-Gon, not knowing what to do. His Master was led to a seat; he sat with his legs spread, and Obi-Wan realized he was meant to lay across them, stomach down. He hesitated, tremulous pride rising inside him. 

What mantras were there, to serve as solace or distraction, for such a surreal circumstance? 

Everyone was waiting for him. Obi-Wan swallowed hard, and climbed across Qui-Gon’s lap. It was awkward; he was a grown man himself, and though smaller than his Master, he barely fit, his hands splayed out on the floor, head down. 

Qui-Gon placed a palm against Obi-Wan’s back. He could feel a calming wave of the Force radiate from that hand. Obi-Wan knew he was not in danger. The biggest threat, to him, was embarrassment. He was about to be disciplined like a youngling after a tantrum, with a rapt audience. 

He heard soft footsteps move toward them. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Qui-Gon said, “My hand will suffice.”

“It is traditional.”

“It is your tradition. I am compromising my own values to satisfy yours; Sage Capte can compromise in this.”

Ah, Obi-Wan realized, his strained muscles relaxing slightly. The cane. Qui-Gon had refused the cane. No doubt because he could soften the blows easier with his hand...and, more importantly, it suggested the Jedi would not completely kowtow to Capte’s whims. 

B’Ha sighed. “Fine. You make an understandable point, Master Jedi.” 

Qui-Gon touched between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades and leaned over. “It will be quick, Padawan.”

Obi-Wan looked down at his hands. He swallowed. “Yes, Master.”

The first smack still came as a surprise, though there was very little pain. Yes, Obi-Wan swallowed, biting the inside of his lip, he could do this. He could easily endure this. 

A sharp throat clearing, more footsteps. “Master Jedi, I’m sorry, but this shall not suffice.” More murmuring. 

Qui-Gon’s exhale, heavy with barely constrained umbrage, “I don’t think—“

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened as his leggings were unceremoniously yanked down to his knees, followed by his small clothes. His ass clenched against the sudden, unexpected cool air. Qui-Gon hissed something at whichever oligarch made the obscene move. 

No. _No_. They couldn’t possibly be _serious_ —-

“I’m sorry,” Qui-Gon’s words, soft and earnest, floated down to him. 

But no, Obi-Wan had not known these...squabbling fools meant the punishment would be carried out in such an...an uncouth manner...he felt heat spread through him, and he was aware his skin must be flushed, it must be _obvious_ …

More about him was obvious, and Qui-Gon sensed the exposure, tucking his genitals out of view of the many pairs of eyes, his fingers coarse in their fleeting, perfunctory touch. 

Obi-Wan’s heart raced. His mind was gibbering, pushed too far by the bizarre events unfolding, with himself, prone and half-dressed, at the center. No one had ever...let alone _Qui-Gon_ , his mentor, and already he was wondering what it looked like, from the vantage of the others, seeing him bent over with Qui-Gon hiding away his penis and testicles out of kindness, perhaps a surge of protective anger—

And then the same hand fell on his uncovered bottom, eliciting a sharp, snapping sound, a stronger sensation. Obi-Wan studied his hands, focus, fingers spread on the tiled floor. He could meditate on the—

—another strike—

the pattern of the tiles, for they were quite intricate, beautiful even—

—another, at a different angle, catching the seam between ass and the back of his thigh—

but focus, _breathe_ , that is what Qui-Gon would direct him to do. This was a test, as anything in a Jedi’s life served as an opportunity to learn and grow. Obi-Wan could dismiss this experience as a pointless spectacle, a flexing of political muscle, or he could delve deeper, analyze his own reaction--shock, indignation, and yes, humiliation--to weed out weakness. 

There was pride, for one. He was upset that these powerful men were watching him in such a reduced state. He was stripped, literally, of the protective armor of his Jedi uniform. Qui-Gon would not be so embarrassed, would submit with dignity--

_Qui-Gon._

_Submit._

An especially hard smack made him jump. He shifted in Qui-Gon’s lap, but another blow came before he could gather his bearings, and his penis was caught between his Master’s thighs. 

_Blast it_. He tried to maneuver out of the awkward position, but the punishment was doled out at too efficient a speed. He surrendered to his fate, forcing his gaze and attention back to the tiles.

“…’s very good…” Obi-Wan heard the scrap of a comment, spoken from one man to another. The approval in the hushed voice was evident, maddening.

This ridiculous display was many things, but it was _not_ —

Qui-Gon spanked him where his cheeks met, with enough force to rock him forward. His cock attempted to move with him, but was stuck in the odd cradle of Qui-Gon’s clothed thighs. Each strike increased the friction between Obi-Wan’s bare, bewildered cock and the familiar fabric of Temple-issue leggings. 

“You’re doing well,” Qui-Gon paused, his hand brushing inflamed (bruised? Would there be bruises? Evidence of…) flesh.

For a moment, the corridor between their minds was open, full of Light, and reassurance. But Obi-Wan found himself turning away from it, as his body reacted to his Master’s brief praise in ways he was unaccustomed. 

_You’re doing well._

Should he be proud of his ability to get his ass pummeled before a room of smug politicians? That would be a fine addition to the mission report, he thought, grabbing onto the darkly humorous thought like he could propel himself out of his physical overreaction through sheer wit. 

_well_

_very good_

He closed his eyes and rode out a series of strikes, remembering how the old man stared at him, knowing those same eyes bore into him now. He could only imagine the satisfaction gleaming there—

_very good_

A moan escaped him. His body stiffened. Perhaps no one heard above the tumult of smacks. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek. _Focus. Peace. The Force._

His brain was desperate to obey, yet other parts of him were lost in base sensation. He clutched at the ground, deciding to devote his attention to the pain itself. Because the spanking was beginning to hurt, and his arms already ached from holding his balance. Obi-Wan envisioned letting his sore arms go slack; he would topple forward and the whole outrageous debacle would be over. 

Except he was a senior apprentice, and besides, it would be over—

Qui-Gon’s left hand rested in the dip of Obi-Wan’s clammy-slick back, and with every few strikes that hand would move, steadying, calming. But the contrast of the touches was just another kind of friction, soft and hard, and warmth pooled in the base of the spine. _Smack_ , his hips moved, almost of their own accord. 

—over soon. It had to be. Already it seemed like it had gone on for hours. 

Obi-Wan glanced over at the small throng of men. A few stood with their hands folded in front. Were they shielding reactions as unexpected, as potentially embarrassing as Obi-Wan’s own? Capte still sat, fingers wrapped around the walking stick, mouth settled in a flat line. 

Obi-Wan looked away, sweat rolling down his brow and stinging his eyes. He would refocus. What was another failing? _Disobedience_ , if the elder Kamorian was to be believed. But Obi-Wan was teased by his fellow Padawans for his steadfast dedication to rules. He had not even been disobedient on this mission; Qui-Gon agreed with him about that. He sat where he was supposed to, didn’t speak unless it was merited, bit his tongue when he disagreed with an oligarch or his Master. His private talks with Qui-Gon were just that—-Capte had no right to pass judgement on their relationship. Qui-Gon encouraged Obi-Wan to think for himself. 

He was not… _not_ simply a naughty subordinate, who needed such a base lesson in compliance. 

Although, he _had_ engaged Qui-Gon in a few arguments during this long, difficult mission. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but wonder if his Master had ever…

ahhhh…

...ever imagined, idly, throwing Obi-Wan across his knee and issuing an altogether different type of punishment than what was deemed 

ohhhh—-Qui-Gon shifted, his thighs squeezing Obi-Wan’s...his...oh _Force_...his cock, which was not accustomed to…

He grasped at the ground, fingers catching on the edge of the tiles, scraping along thin grout lines. No, no, of course Qui-Gon Jinn did not so much as entertain the notion of corporal punishment. Had he not been utterly repulsed by the idea only minutes-hours?-ago? And if he did decide to give Obi-Wan a good 

_very good_

ahhhhh….

a good wallop, surely it would not be with his pants around his ankles, his bare ass and...everything else exposed, each firm smack pushing Obi-Wan forward in an unwitting imitation of other acts. Qui-Gon would not want to be the cause of his own student’s helpless erection, and what would he _think_ if he knew what Obi-Wan was thinking

wanting oh wanting no no no he didn’t want—

But his body wanted, as his body had never wanted before. He was quite proficient in quelling his occasional urges. Now there was a burning ache in his hips, an instinctive demand to _move_ , to push back into...into...what? Something that could go further than a smack, he needed _more_ , needed more friction on his cock and Force something to push inside him

Qui-Gon yes Qui-Gon inside him

strong hands and strong thighs and a long cock he’d seen before it would fit he knew they could make it fit so good

oh no

_so good_

“Ahh….” Obi-Wan moaned, burying his face in the folds of Qui-Gon’s robe as the orgasm hit, bright and uncontrollable, and his confused cock spilled on...oh Force…

Qui-Gon’s hand gently cupped the back of Obi-Wan’s head, keeping him there, hidden from the oligarchs. “Enough now.” He said.

Obi-Wan was gasping, fingers clutched in his Master’s sleeve, face hot and mind reeling. This was simply not happening. Not to him. Not _this_ \---

“Capte is satisfied by his tears. He has shown true remorse and humbleness.” B’Ha announced. “We shall, uh, resume the talks tomorrow. We understand your apprentice will require time to recover.” Obi-Wan heard a door open, followed by retreating footsteps. 

He remained with his face pressed against the dark fabric. At least it seemed the oligarchs had mistook his cries for some breakdown of pride, rather than physical release. If only he could delude himself into thinking Qui-Gon was so easily fooled. 

But even if Qui-Gon was not deeply perceptive in the Force, the proof was written on the man’s leggings.

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon touched his back. He felt a current of healing energy spread from patient fingers. 

Obi-Wan’s stomach clenched. He needed to get up, although that would mean actually _facing_ his Master, which Obi-Wan wasn’t sure he could do again. He would just have to finish his training with his eyes studiously focused on his own feet. 

Qui-Gon started tugging Obi-Wan’s pants back into place, and that was enough to rouse Obi-Wan from his stunned mortification. He scrambled off Qui-Gon’s lap, yanking his clothes into some semblance of order, barely registering the burning pulses from his abused backside. He glanced at Qui-Gon’s clothing, which was a mistake, as he immediately landed on the telltale stains, and then he really did drop his eyes to his own boots. “Master...I...I have no excuse…”

An agonizing pause, then Qui-Gon squeezed his shoulder. “You have no more excuse than any of us, Padawan. In that our spirits are housed in bodies of flesh, and sometimes that flesh wins, even over a strong spirit.” 

He chanced a glance at his mentor. Qui-Gon was standing, robe discreetly tucked closer than usual around the uniform beneath, hiding the crude result of Obi-Wan’s spirit-conquering flesh. “But I do believe our hosts are correct. We could both use a little regrouping.”

Obi-Wan released part of the tension in his chest on an exhale. “Yes, Master.”

\-------

The discomfort crept up on him as they walked back to their temporary quarters; by the time they reached the door, Obi-Wan was moving much slower, shocks rushing from his lower spine to the backs of his thighs. Qui-Gon occasionally braced Obi-Wan’s back. 

So many things hung in the air between them. Obi-Wan could sense his Master’s regret, guilt that surged when Obi-Wan made any noise of discomfort. 

Obi-Wan tried to remain stoic, but Qui-Gon was a powerful man, and his strikes radiated deeply. He could admit to himself that he was not expecting the pain to reach this level, anymore than he expected to ejaculate all over his Master’s clothes. He was foolish to jump headlong into accepting the punishment, disregarding Qui-Gon’s well-founded hesitance. 

Now there was this...terrible awkwardness, and it was all Obi-Wan’s fault. 

He tightened his shields as he hobbled inside the modest quarters, containing two narrow beds, kitchenette and a basic fresher. He thought he would be relieved to finally be granted some privacy, except he felt the pressure to speak, to formally apologize. Hells, to offer to clean Qui-Gon’s uniform. 

But when he turned to Qui-Gon, his Master only smiled, touching his cheek. “I know you are sorry, Obi-Wan. I can feel your pain, and knowing that I was the cause is…difficult, for me. We needn’t compound our pain by blaming ourselves. We were placed in an unusual situation. It will be alright. Bruises, and even embarrassment, fade with time.”

Obi-Wan bowed as far as his sore body would permit, repressing a wince. “Yes, Master. Thank you.” 

Qui-Gon brushed his fingers along Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he crossed over to the kitchenette, returning with glasses. Obi-Wan noticed Qui-Gon’s robe hanging open wider and he flushed, glad for the distraction of the chilled water. 

He realized as he was drinking that he was incredibly thirsty, and drained the glass. He could have used more, but was loathe to make the trip himself, or ask Qui-Gon. Instead Obi-Wan studied his Master’s fingers, closed around his own glass. He had only ever experienced his Master’s hands as a means of instruction, correcting his form, pulling him back from danger, other times in reassurance, or comfort. Always positive, never rough or painful. 

And he had never, not once, reacted to those hands sexually. It was shameful, anathema to the very essence of the Master/Padawan partnership. His stomach turned at the possibility that Qui-Gon heard any of those racing, carnal thoughts leading up to Obi-Wan’s very public climax. The weakness of the flesh was one thing, the mind quite another. 

He had not just lost control. A part of him, apparently, enjoyed the indignities of the situation. Which was a revelation too horrifying to examine, just yet. 

“I’ll run you a bath.” Qui-Gon said, setting aside his glass. “Then I think you would benefit from a healing trance.”

Obi-Wan heard the edge of guilt in Qui-Gon’s voice. He dutifully followed him to the fresher, leaning on the sink as Qui-Gon filled the tub. 

“Do you need help getting out of your clothes?” Qui-Gon asked. Steam wafted up from the water. Suddenly it seemed too warm, the offer too blunt for Obi-Wan to process. But Qui-Gon was very often to-the-point; besides, nudity was not taboo among Jedi. He had spent one humid night sharing a bedroll with Qui-Gon, clad merely in their smallclothes. The heat was so thick that Obi-Wan had been unable to drift off, tossing on the lumpy bedroll, until Qui-Gon had scratched his back, in long, soothing lines.

That image of Qui-Gon, nearly naked, gleaming with sweat, blended with the very recent memories of his punishment, and the way Qui-Gon looked now, leaning over the tub, long hair hanging over his shoulder. Warmth stirred low in Obi-Wan’s belly; horrified, he slammed more mental shields around his bizarre thoughts. 

Qui-Gon turned off the water and retrieved a towel, unaware of his student’s mental misconduct. Force, what would he think? 

Obi-Wan felt the tips of his ears burn. He cleared his throat. “I can handle things from here, Master. Thank you.” 

He waited for Qui-Gon to leave the room and close the door before he dared look down at his leggings. Though Qui-Gon had bore the brunt of the release, Obi-Wan saw a few small, wet spots. And when he carefully worked his way out of his uniform, his half-erect cock bobbed up to greet him.

“Blast it,” he hissed. What in Force’s name was going on? 

——

**Author's Note:**

> There is a bit more to the story, but I lost track of time, and didn't realize today was the date to post this particular prompt. More to come. Pun always intended.


End file.
